


Slippers

by Tat_Tat



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tat_Tat/pseuds/Tat_Tat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa receives a gift, but it's not from who she expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slippers

The slippers came, wrapped in shining satin. They were dainty, beautiful slippers, pink. They looked like a pair of rose petals, and as if to drive this semblance in, there were roses stitched in gold thread. 

The roses are a nod towards the sender of the gift: it's a symbol of the House Tyrell.

Sansa’s heart swelled, thinking of Ser Loras. She held the pair of slippers to her chin, and for the first time in awhile, smiled. 

Eager to try them on, much to Shae’s chagrin, Sansa changed her outfit to match her new gift.

X

The rest of the day, Sansa searches for Ser Loras, cheeks warm with joy. She walks through the gardens first, knowing that the Tyrell family has a fondness for flowers. The entire way she steals glances to her new slippers. There is a slight skip to her step, and it gives her memories of her childhood, when she was Arya’s age and skipping in the snow.

“Sansa.”

A familiar voice calls to her as she’s admiring her slippers again. She imagines it’s Ser Loras but the voice is too feminine. She looks up to see Margaery Tyrell has intercepted her path. 

Margaery is wearing the same rose emblem in her clothes: a light blue dress festooned with an intricate pattern of roses in gold thread. Just above her waist is a silver and blue sash, and over that a belt made of silver and bronze, imitating vines as well as thorns. At the center of the belt is a single rose. It’s made of bronze but the metalwork is so accurate that Sansa is sure it could have easily been plucked out of the garden and placed there this noon.

After taking in the whole of Margaery’s outfit, Sansa looks at her shoes again. Margaery follows her gaze, tilting her head. “You’re wearing them already I see.”

Sansa flushed. “Yes,” she says with a small stammer. She looks up into Margaery’s eyes. “Is Ser Loras close by?”

Margaery twists her lips, although not in a mocking way; it’s just the way her mouth turns when she’s deep in thought or mischievous. “Hmm. I haven’t seen him today.” Immediately, she hooks their arms together and leans closer. “Come, have tea with me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-” Sansa tries for an excuse, eager to find Ser Loras.

“Are you sure? I believe I saw a plate of lemoncakes when they were setting up the table.”  
At that Sansa reconsiders and Margaery grins, leading her upstairs to one of the private balconies. The space is ovular and walled with trellises, upholding beautiful green vines and flowers. The sunlight beams in the center, radiating the little space, creating a sense of warm intimacy. It feels more like a parlor than a garden.

Near the edge of the balcony is a table adorned with cakes and cookies and a pitcher filled with water. Floating merrily in the water are whole mint leaves. A servant fills their glasses with mint-water and leaves. Sansa finds this strange. During meals the servants stand at the sidelines, hawk-eyed searching for half-empty glasses and bare plates.

They eat leisurely, the conversation girlish and sometimes about boys. Laughter dots their exchanges, but Sansa finds herself still snatching glances at her shoes, tapping them impatiently on the stone.

When Sansa finds an opening, she takes it, beginning to stand to bow. Margaery’s hand falls on her wrist and Sansa is open-mouthed and suddenly worried. Tension builds in her throat, flashbacks to when she trusted Joffrey with all her heart, when she trusted anyone with all her heart. Her chest hurts and she tries not to tear up, looking at the other woman, soon to be queen.

The woman’s face is very serious as her fingers work their way to the inside of the redhead’s wrist. “Ser Loras didn’t send the shoes,” she says plainly.

Sansa’s brows knit. “How...?” 

She pauses, thinking, then her eyes widen. Very quickly, she thanks her, bowing as she sits, pinned gently in her chair by Margaery. “Thank you. They are quite lovely! I could hardly wait to try them on.”

“So I see!” Margaery grimaces in such a way that her lips purse to the side and her dimple shows. For awhile they sit in silence and the wind stirs, carrying the fragrance of roses. The wind settles, and Margaery leans forward, and kisses Sansa, softly.

She pulls back, still wearing her characteristic grin, while Sansa is dumbstruck. Very carefully, Sansa regains her composure, telling herself the kiss was a formality, an affection of friendship. But as her eyes raise to Margaery’s gaze she doubts this, and confirms it when the woman raises the hem of Sansa’s dress with her foot. 

Sansa is still, unsure what to make of this or how to react. Should she take it without fight as she has in other, worse situations? She doesn’t want to, cannot afford to be rude to Margaery, and not because she will be queen, but because aside from Shae, she is her only friend in King’s Landing.

Margaery’s hand travels up her thighs, nails trailing in their path. Sansa’s eyelids flutter and she sighs. Perhaps this is not unpleasant after all. She finds herself leaning into Margaery’s touches, against her side, scooting the chair closer to her. Sansa’s head rests on the other woman’s shoulder, soft wavy hair kissing her cheeks. She breathes, taking in the smell of roses and ginger and talc. She rubs her nose against Margaery’s neck, then sighs, content. The comfort reminds her of her mother, and the closeness reminds her of songs and ballads, things she wished for- and still does: true love and affection.

For a moment, a tinge of regret twists her. “But what about Ser Loras, I’m bethrothe-”

Margaery hushes her with a whisper and kisses her cheek. “This will not change anything. You will still marry my brother. Relax, little dove.”

Sansa does, closing her eyes, losing herself as fingers slip under the fabric of her undergarments. She feels safe in Margaery’s arms. Safe from Joffrey. Safe from the lies and backstabbing politics of King’s Landing. 

“The shoes are more than a gift,” Margaery whispers in her ear, dipping her fingers into Sansa’s queynte. “They are more than a welcome into the Tyrell family, also.” Her thumb rolls against Sansa's clit, swollen with arousal.

“Do you know of my family’s words? ‘Growing Strong’? I see strength in you, Sansa. More than you yourself or anyone else can see. I have seen too many take your silence for ignorance, your acceptance for defeat, and your kindness for weakness. I am holding the wolf of Winterfell. I see promise in your gentle, quiet strength.” She holds the sighing redhead tighter. “Will you grow strong, alongside us?”

Sansa nods, nails digging into Margaery’s knee as she reaches her peak. She shudders, flushing from her chest to her neck. 

Her toes curl in the pink slippers.


End file.
